


Unforgettable

by Francis_Eugene



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francis_Eugene/pseuds/Francis_Eugene
Summary: Xander gets a phone call.
Relationships: Cordelia Chase/Xander Harris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Unforgettable

**Author's Note:**

> I know this theme has been done dozens of times. Here's is my take, inspired by Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable".

**Unforgettable**

The cell phone rings eight times before he manages to pick it up, having fallen twice crossing the darkened room. No one ever calls this time of night. Hardly anyone calls at all in fact. But if they do it's usually important. 

His first reach misses. "Goddamn depth perception," he mutters, trying again, succeeding. 

"Yeah, what is it?" He's irritable and he doesn't mind letting it show. "It's..." He lifts his arm to look at his watch. It's not there. He forgets the time is also displayed on the phone. "...really fucking late. And I'm really fucking tired." 

For a long moment there's only long-distance hiss, a few electronic chirps and pops, a quiet coughing sound, he's not sure. The voice he finally hears is feminine soft. Tired. Sad. 

"Xander?" 

"No, Idi Amin. I've taken his body for another go at Uganda." 

The voice becomes even softer. And he detects a distinct tremor. 

"Xander?" 

"Buffy?" 

"Yeah." 

He stands straighter, a big quirky smile beginning to crease his features. He's glad to hear from her, it's been too long and it's quite a pleasant surprise. 

"Hey, Buff! Sorry about that. Oh man, it's great to hear your voice again! To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"I, uh..." A shuddering intake of breath is heard over the crackles and hiss. "I..." Another deep breath before the words come in a rush. "I have bad news, Xander." 

The smile falters. 

Figures. When does anyone call with good news? He tries to remember the last time but—nope—can't. Sighing, he picks up the cheap plastic pen he keeps on the counter, ready to jot down the important details on this latest crisis. 

Get it over with. Move on. Next! 

"What is it?" he demands impatiently. 

"Sh-she's dead. Cordelia, I m-mean. Dead. She died." 

He blinks, shakes his head, shakes the phone. He could _not_ have heard that correctly. 

"I'm sorry, what?" 

But the sudden nausea in his gut, and the chill in his veins, is real. 

Buffy speaks a little more firmly, a little more slowly. "It's Cordelia, Xander. She died. We just heard fr—" 

He's vaguely aware Buffy is still speaking, but he can't understand any of it as his head fills with a crashing roar, louder and louder until everything is drowned out but a painful, labored pounding in his chest. 

_Unforgettable, that's what you are_

The pen he'd been twirling in his fingers is still spinning, catching reflections from the streetlights outside. He closes his eye, blocking out the orange sparkle. 

"Xander?" 

Get it over with? Move on? Who says stupid things like that? 

"Xander? Are you there? Xander?" 

He wants to ask something, opens his mouth to speak. Air is drawn in, lips part, tongue moves... 

"—" 

An age passes before he takes a deep breath. He opens his eye and sees the pen still moving in his fingers, sees it's nearly out of ink. He's going to need a new one soon. 

"W-when?" he hears someone ask. 

The store around the corner sells nice pens, he thinks. 

"Last night, in Los Angeles." 

"OK." 

They also have paper pads. He needs a new one of those, too. 

"Angel is arranging the service." 

"Oh?" 

It's odd; he's not sure why it hurts so much to talk, why it's so difficult to use words. Why he has to remember to breathe. 

"You want to be there, right?" 

The pen stops, gripped tightly in his fist, thumb tracing along the smooth surface. He supposes Buffy deserves an answer. 

"Yeah." 

His hand spasms and small plastic shards fly, landing on the counter-top, tinkling brightly as they bounce to the floor. 

"We can arrange the flight from here. If that's OK?" 

"It's OK." He pauses, then adds, "Thanks." 

"Where are you now?" 

He turns slightly to look out the window, seeing the low shapes of the industrial parts of the city, the ocean in the distance. It's not the prettiest part of town but he likes the view anyway, likes seeing the water. 

_Unforgettable, though near or far_

"Durban. I'm in Durban. South Africa." 

"OK, we'll get back to you." Buffy pauses, the hiss making its presence felt again. It is the most excruciating, painful sound Xander has ever heard. 

"Xander?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I'm—" Her voice catches. "I'm really sorry, Xander." 

Sorry? He cocks his head and ponders for a moment. 

"Yeah. Me too." 

"You're gonna be all right?" 

The genuine concern filtering through the distortion cuts straight to is heart, he swears he can feel it. He desperately needs to end this conversation, needs to wake up and know it never happened. 

"Yeah." 

He knows she knows he's lying. It doesn't matter. Not waiting for Buffy's reply he slowly closes the phone, gently setting it down. 

He sits quietly unmoving, staring at the soft moonlight dancing on the distant water, unsure what he's feeling, what he's supposed to be feeling. Why should this be worse than everyone else that was close to him? Jesse, Jenny, Joyce, Tara, far too many uncounted others. 

Anya. After Anya, he'd been numb for weeks. 

It occurs to him he loved Cordelia as much. Just never told her that, never admitted it to himself. Until now. 

In these last five years he can't recall a day when, at least once, perhaps only as a stray whisper of memory, some thought of her wouldn't occur, some remembered clever insult making him smile fondly. 

He remembers she left for Los Angeles to be a movie star, to be someone for the world to admire. It hadn't worked out that way. Instead she became a hero, known to a bare handful. He smiles with the realization that that must have been one of the special things he'd seen in her so long ago. 

He admired her. 

He wonders if she ever thought of him after graduation. Doubtful. Better that way, he thinks, they would only be unpleasant memories. 

The ring of the phone startles him. It's a flunky to give him the flight details: Durban to Cape Town, Cape Town to New York, New York to Los Angeles. It's an evening service naturally. He'll be late, the flight schedules not cooperating. 

A few clothes get shoved into a duffel, including his cleanest pants and best sweater. He doesn't have a suit, not needing one for the job he does here. Likely he'll be the worst dressed person there. She would appreciate that and the thought makes him laugh a little. 

––– 

Late in the evening a taxi stops at a cemetery entrance. The driver takes the offered bundle of bills, ready to make change, but his passenger has already walked away. 

They're gathered on a small rise in the near distance. He recognizes some of the people clustered up on the hill. Buffy, Willow, Giles. A tall, unknown black man is standing next to someone he thinks might be Wesley, he's not sure. A thin girl he doesn't recognize. Someone else in a Fedora. 

Giles appears to be saying something. He spots Angel next to Giles. He's never seen Angel look so somber before, which is really saying something. 

Even from a distance he can tell the marker is just that, just a small stone. He knows at one time in her life Cordelia would have imperiously demanded—and rightfully expected—something grand, bigger than anything else around. The Taj Mahal just might have been suitable. 

He also knows she changed from the girl he knew, expects Angel knows her tastes better than anyone. 

He can't make himself walk up the incline. The others haven't noticed him yet as he slides behind a tree. This was a mistake he realizes, he shouldn't have come. If his feet would obey he could turn and leave. 

After awhile he sees them cry and hug, and cry some more. They disperse, going in the other direction, holding each other. 

A couple of Mexicans begin to fill in the hole using a small tractor, then drop sod over the dirt. Eventually they too go away. 

It's quiet now except for faraway traffic noise and the fading, wavering roar of a jet passing overhead. His legs start to walk of their own accord toward her. Standing in front of her he tries to remember all she had meant and been to him, the sugar and the spice and the everything nice. 

He hates himself, what he did to her, still doesn't understand why. Does being eighteen count as a valid reason? Probably for the best though, he thinks, in the long run. Being who he was he knows he just would have found another way to ruin it. 

"I knew you came," Angel quietly announces his presence. "Why didn't you join us?" 

Still looking at the cold gray rock he doesn't turn to face Angel. "I needed to be...alone. With her." He doesn't see but he knows Angel is nodding his head in understanding. 

Like a volcano, white-hot fury explodes in him, boiling up from deep within. It shoves aside the pain and it feels better. Here was someone who _should_ have been able to protect her! Not a loser, but a real champion. Someone he could blame. 

"Angel," he growls out, facing the vampire. 

Angel looks up from the grave to return the glare, suddenly finding he's looking up from sprawled on the ground. Pain blooms on his cheek where Xander had connected, harder than he would have thought possible for the boy. A man now, he sees. 

Xander shouts at him. "You should have protected her! That was your job! Where were you?!" 

Angel's own anger vanishes, the accusations only a weak echo of his own. "I failed," he replies, unable to look at Xander. "I...failed." 

Xander's anger, not cathartic, not cleansing at all, vanishes. He turns away from Angel, back to face her. 

_That's why, darling, it's incredible_

A bottle of Bushmill's, nearly finished, stands between them on a low table. 

"I'll never forget how beautiful she was, you know? Not physically. I mean, yeah, duh, there was that. But inside. She was just...just so..." He knows he's not a poet, that he's always been incapable of expressing how he feels, and so he rambles, the single-malt doing its job. "Just so...alive! 

"And that smile! Y'know, the little one when she scrunches her nose? And then you _know_. You just know, deep in your heart, you're lucky to be alive too, to be with her." 

He looks down at the pale amber liquid sloshing in his glass as he swirls it around. "I haven't seen or talked with her in five years. And I couldn't forget her. Not once." He stares silently through the glass. 

_That someone so unforgettable_

"Cordelia sometimes talked about you," Angel begins, slurring his words. 

"Nothing good, I imagine." Xander knocks back the last drops, craving the burn on the tongue, in the throat, the gut. Something—anything—to fill the quiet empty. 

"How you hurt her, yes, that came up once or twice." Angel pauses. "But mostly she talked about how you'd try and protect her, jumping in the way like an idiot, being the first to get your head bashed in. How you could make her laugh even when times were darkest. How you let her be herself, helped her find herself." 

Angel raises his own glass for a last deep draught. "No, Xander, she didn't forget you either." 

_Thinks that I am unforgettable too_

Xander twists away, he can't let the vampire see him cry. 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> As noted above, this was inspired by Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable" (words by Irving Gordon, arranged by Nelson Riddle), one of the best love songs ever. The "duet" with his daughter Natalie is also worth a listen.
> 
> The original version had the full lyrics interspersed throughout the story, first to guide the events and dialog, and also to create pauses and divide changes of scene. Due to copyright I've removed all but the first 2 and last 3 lines of the song. I hope it still has the same impact.


End file.
